


Sunrays

by Asala



Category: Cinderella (1950), Disney Animated Fandoms
Genre: F/F, I can't explain this, this ship i just don't know
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-28
Updated: 2016-04-22
Packaged: 2018-03-04 01:49:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2904875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Asala/pseuds/Asala
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lady Tremaine’s room was still bathed in complete darkness, and it was easy to believe she was still asleep, comfortably engulfed in that heavy, luxurious bedspread. But Cinderella’s neck was already burning under that piercing gaze she could feel following her faintest movement, her cheeks blushing ever so slightly for a fault she had yet to commit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The sunrays were languorously caressing the frozen grass, bathing it in a yet timid warmth, like a lover too afraid to wake up what was his for one night, for mornings cruelly ended sweet dreams. The property’s garden was quite vast, and the woods surrounding it often brought deer desperately trying to browse the frosted carpet lain before them. Sometimes, the game would take fright at the sudden escape of a flock of pheasants, and stand alert with anguish in their dark eyes, large fumes steaming from their nostrils. The mornings always followed those same rituals, albeit with slight variations, and Cinderella had found dawn was her favourite time of the day, for that it was hers and hers only.

Every morning, she awoke with the sun whilst the house was still in Morpheus’ sweet embrace, and opened the curtains of the large corridors that ran next to her stepmother’s quarters. The heavy velvet didn’t make her task easy, but she had learnt to do it in perfect silence, for the mistress of the house wasn’t keen on disturbances, as small they might be. She then made her way to the large kitchen where she reigned as a queen – she suspected her two stepsisters to never have set foot in it, except maybe to play havoc with the flour bags – free to start the breakfast for the three ladies. She would eat quickly after them, whilst they’d go back to their respective chamber to get dressed. She often would be required to help for this too, as their dresses were the acme of sophistication and complexity; they involved a subtle layering of rich tissues and tight corsets that gave Cinderella, more often than not, a light blush on the cheeks as she rapidly glossed over the soft material with trembling hands.

Her routine was a well-oiled machinery, really. Etched in stone, her mornings ran their course like the preceding ones and there was no nasty surprises forecast, for what Cinderella was grateful; the rest of the day was always beyond stressful, as Lady Tremaine was hard to predict, and her daughters hard to handle. New chores would often pop up like the heads of a hydra, before which the girl would feel all but human. True, she had developed quite refined problem-solving skills, but she sometimes still felt like she simply wasn’t up for whatever task her stepmother would see fit throwing at her.

From the kitchen, she went to the dinning room, where she carefully arranged the porcelain and silverware, along with fruits, grilled sliced bread and steaming tea. The different pots of jam and honey were waiting at attention for the general to come inspect the troupes, with the usual pursed lips and squinting eyes. Cinderella changed the flowers placed in the curvy vase in the middle of the long table; everything needed to be perfect, after all. She smoothed out her apron and rearranged the unruly locks of hair. Taking a deep breath, she marched towards _her_ room. 

Not one to break its habits, Lucifer was waiting at the door, like a warning. His mouth stretched with malice as Cinderella approached, and he wasted no time, already nibbling at her ankles in a way that couldn’t be mistaken for playful. The girl had too much patience, of course; she’s too used to the teeth scratching her skin to bother complaining. She merely chased the cat away with a shake of the leg, for she had seen devils more striking he could ever be.

Her small hand knocked three times and she held her breath, as the play was about to start. Her stepmother didn’t encumber herself with even the simplest “come in”. It’s well accepted the girl had to understand her intricate whims without being told, and even if she did not always understand, Cinderella _knew._ And it was knowing her place in this peculiar play that she entered the room, albeit with a little stage fright that the years had not been able to cure.

Lady Tremaine’s room was still bathed in complete darkness, and it was easy to believe she was still asleep, comfortably engulfed in that heavy, luxurious bedspread. But Cinderella’s neck was already burning under that piercing gaze she could feel following her faintest movement, her cheeks blushing ever so slightly for a fault she had yet to commit.

“Good morning, stepmother.”

The whisper passed her lips softly, and almost instantly, she bit her lower lips as she always did after addressing the older woman, that pavlovian reflex difficult to loose.

“Cinderella,” came the somehow curt reply, even if in the range of disdain lady Tremaine’s voice could take, this was all but neutral.

Cinderella’s mouth let appear the ghost of a smile, she immediately repressed. It was ridiculous really, as she was hidden in the obscurity as well. But one couldn’t be too cautious, as her stepmother’s patience tended to wear thin, and such frivolous things like a smile weren’t to her taste.

As she drew the curtains open, she caught sight of Lucifer jumping heavily on the bed and already begging for his mistress’ caresses. Cinderella couldn’t help but _stare_ at the hand scratching the cat behind its ears. When hers were small and sometimes inept, her stepmother had long and thin hands that never betrayed her, vestige of a distinction one didn’t find anymore, one she had so cruelly failed to pass to her daughters. The despotic, bony fingers were electing a content purring from the cat, and Cinderella marvelled at this, albeit not forgetting how those gentle hands could turn into sharp claws. 

“Something on your mind, child?”

The comment startled the girl out of her thoughts, and she bowed her head, ever so slightly. It was a simple question and yet, lady Tremaine managed to turn it into what sounded like an insult. Cinderella felt her cheeks redden under the penetrating gaze. The hand had stopped moving, as well as her own breathing, noticed the girl.

“I was just,” she began, her voice caught in her throat. She could see those red lips drawing a thin line of displeasure already, and quickly forced the words past her own. “I was just looking at your hands,” she heard herself say, unable to stop what she knew could either ease her stepmother’s annoyance or fan it.  “You have such beautiful hands.”

She raised her head, looking tentatively at the woman she feared as much as she respected, only to find her positively surprised. But the eyebrows slightly arched quickly went back to normal, as her stepmother was nothing but poised and regal.

“Well,” began lady Tremaine, almost purring the words as they were stretched past her lips with an infinite slowness, “I wouldn’t want to deprive you of what seemed to deserve a rather _intense_ look.” She smirked, gauging the girl with obvious amusement, seeing her squirm with unease. “Go fetch my unguent on the cabinet,” she added, her low, sultry voice like thunder to Cinderella’s ears. 

The girl complied in haste, almost running towards the lacquered cabinet gleaming ominously in the faint sunlight. There were more than enough perfume bottles, powder boxes and pomades for her frantic little hands to send waves of panic to her brain. Which one was she to choose?  What if she picked the wrong one? Lady Tremaine’s calm, pleasant even, demeanour would shatter at once and Cinderella would be snared in a tempest for the entire day.

She heard the bed creak behind her and tensed up immediately, holding her breath as her stepmother’s measures footsteps approached. She stopped right behind her, towering her, probably with a sneer on the lips Cinderella could only imagine to be the omen for a harsh reprimand. The girl instinctively shrank herself a bit, shaking like a leaf and already stammering an apology.

The older woman fainted no to hear a word, or maybe she simply didn’t care. Slightly brushing Cinderella’s side, she reached for a small pot.

“There,” she said, and Cinderella couldn’t help but let a shuddering breath escape when lady Tremaine’s deep voice grazed her neck. The matriarch slowly dipped a finger in the jar to get a knob of pomade she gently started to rub on her hands. “Now, go to Anastasia and Drizella,” she added, the reprimand not as strong as expected. “I believe it’s more than time for those two to wake up.” 

Cinderella was just able to nod, quickly leaving her stepmother to coat herself with her burgundy dressing gown.

Awakening her stepsisters was a whole different ball game: they weren't quite the morning type, and the sun and fresh air on their sleepy skin never felt as a light caress, but rather as a harsh slap across the face. It never went without complaining and annoyed sighs from the two frowning mouths, but at the mention of their mother waiting for them, the two sisters would soon enough morph into obedient young girls.

The breakfast was usually spent with a tensed silence in which lady Tremaine revelled. Sometimes Drizella or Anastasia would dare breaking it with the story of a particularly comical dream, to what their mothers response would be light, collected smile, that feeble twitch of lips worth a thousand words.

Whilst the tinkling of silverware against china made most of the conversation, Cinderella was waiting patiently in a corner, ready to be the arm commanded to pass the butter or to refill the cups with tea.

Mornings were a smooth routine, really.

"Cinderella, do give me a second helping," demanded lady Tremaine, making a vague motion with her empty cup in hand.

The girl executed herself, pouring the steamy beverage with caution. She watched with a sick fascination how those long fingers curled seamlessly around the handle, a guilty blush creeping up her cheeks as she wondered how it would feel, to cradle her face in those gentle hands.

Her stepmother brought the cup to her lips with an aching slowness but suddenly stopped, a gesture alarming enough to startle Cinderella out of her reverie.

"Careful not to burn yourself with those hands," lady Tremaine whispered, a smirk growing on her lips as she saw the perplexed and embarrassed look of her stepdaughter. “I daresay that kettle is rather hot, and you’re shaking like you’ve seen the devil.”

Cinderella then realised how much her unsure hands were shaking, and forced herself to stay put in order not to get burned with over spilling tea. The matriarch’s crooked grin grew wider as she sipped her tea her intense gaze keeping the girl to her place like a leash would a dog. She eventually rose from her chair, dominating her stepdaughter with her stately demeanour. She gauged the girl with the same smile, and for a brief second, Cinderella thought she saw those green eyes flash with something she couldn’t quite place. Lady Tremaine bent ever so slightly, and added, in a voice low enough so that Cinderella would be the only one to hear her: “But maybe you have?”

It wasn't as much a question as it was an affirmation.

The august woman left for her quarters without any further ado, letting behind her a very confused Cinderella and her twins frowning at the odd display. If Drizella and Anastasia had taken great delight in that curious exchange, certain it would end up in their stepsister admonished by a very displeased lady Tremaine, they were now left hungry for more. Of course, they wouldn’t dare to interfere in their mother’s intricate schemes, even if arousing them was always tempting, for they always feared her tantrums might one day be redirected for the worst, and they honestly lacked the wit necessary to follow her mind’s thinking. No, they would simply ramble about it all day long, in quick, hastily breaths, never failing to mock Cinderella’s flushed face and bothered expression.

The rest of the day had brought its usual share of chores. Cinderella had spent her morning dusting the tapestries and draperies of the house, finding solace in the repetitive tasks, as her mind would be would run on automatic and stop brewing over those uncomfortable thoughts that would cling to her skin at night.  Lucifer had reared its head, malevolence gleaming in its yellow eyes, but she had hopefully managed to show him with her mop. It was a risky bet: should one of her stepsister witness her forfeit, or worse, her stepmother, she would be refused her dinner at best.

Lady Tremaine had commanded her to take care of the large windows of the conservatory that opened on the patio and the vast gardens of the estate. Cinderella, being done with the rest of her chores, had gone to do the last on her list, only to find its instigator there, sunken on a large armchair.

If the matriarch heard her arrival she didn't show it, carrying on her reading, stern rectangular glasses perched on her nose. What was the protocol here? Was she to clean the windows _now_ and disturb her stepmother's quietude? Or should she wait until the conservatory was free of any human presence, save her one, as to not be dimed a mere annoyance in her stepmother's opinion?

A long, irked sigh broke her train of thoughts, and Cinderella gulped audibly. She had forgotten, for a moment only, that she wasn’t quite the composed woman lady Tremaine was, but a squirmy, awkward teenager.

“Last time I checked, bothersome fidgeting wasn’t a chore asked of you.”

The clipped remark almost made Cinderella drop her bucket of water. She watched in dread her stepmother closing the book she was reading and folding her hands on her lap, turning ever so slightly towards her, her tall figure stiff as a stick. 

“Well?” she prompted, green eyes squinting balefully.

“I’m sorry,” Cinderella squeaked, “I didn’t want to disrupt your–”

“A fine job you did,” cut lady Tremaine, not keen on apologies.

The girl bit her lips, not daring to meet her stepmother’s gaze she could only imagine being anything but displeased.

“I’m sorry,” she repeated again, in a feeble whisper. “Do you wish me to come back later?” She might as well asked, at this point; as there seemed to be close to no difference between small slip-ups and big gaffs.

“Don't be ridiculous,” retorted the peremptory voice of the matriarch. “Then it will be dark and you won’t see a thing.” 

“But you’re reading and I don't want to disturb you,” she said tentatively.

“It seems a bit late for such considerations,” was all she got in return, lady Tremaine returning to her book with a particularly tight-lipped look.

Cinderella began with the outside of the long windows, trying her best to drag her little stepladder with the minimum noise. She dared some glances to her stepmother from time to time. Oblivious to the reverent display, she sat comfortably in the leather armchair, flipping the pages of her book at a regular pace, sometimes staying a bit longer on some paragraph, which Cinderella supposed, must have had some echo in her soul.

Her reading glasses gave lady Tremaine an appearance even more austere, given such thing was possible. But at the same time, it revealed something most people considered preposterous for a woman: that e wasn’t only a woman of noble ascendance, not a mere puppet to be married away, but an intellectual. She had knowledge over a plethora of subjects; Cinderella had witnessed this on several occasions already. But that concentrating air she had whilst reading? This was just priceless in the young servant’s opinion. Unfortunately, Anastasia and Drizella didn’t seem to have inherited her cunning intellect nor her natural refinement, and didn’t take much interest in the rich library of the family. Cinderella had always wondered if maybe _she_ would have been permitted to read those books. Well, given she had the mind to understand them, of course.

She sighed, her sponge and window scraper hanging at her sides.

Eventually, she realised that she must have been staying like this for far too long, _staring,_ as her dreamy eyes met by her stepmother’s questioning ones. There was an odd mixture of surprise and exasperation on her face, but the dominant trait certainly was that half confused smugness stretching her lips in a predatory smile.

The girl quickly looked away, not strong enough to hold that gaze she felt burning on her skin as she got off the stepladder and came back in the conservatory to clean the inside of the windows. 

She plunged her sponge in the water and started rubbing it against the glass, careful to do it as quietly as possible. She didn't dare to look behind her, as she could sense her stepmother still following her every action with that critical eye of hers. Not able to bear this tensed silence any longer, she couldn’t stop her timid voice from breaking it.

“What are you… What are you reading?”

She turned her hear only to see the poised woman looking at her above her glasses, a polite – pleased? – surprise on the face. She tilted her head ever so slightly, as if wondering if that slip of curiosity deserved an answer or rather to be beat out of the girl immediately.

“Poetry,” she said after a moment. “Do _you_ take any interest in that genre?”

The question was genuine, albeit not quite hiding the slur.

“I–I’m afraid I’m not really versed,” she began, taken aback by her stepmother’s oddly _friendly_ demeanour; she spoke as if they were equals.

“That wasn’t my question.”

“Yes,” she said meekly, her eyes falling on her shoes. “I really like poetry.” 

Lady Tremaine seemed to contemplate all the possibilities this new knowledge about the girl gave her. They stood in this agonising silence for what felt like hours to Cinderella, who was ready to pass out, when her stepmother spoke again:

“When you’ll be done with the kitchen after dinner, come to my room.”

And there she was, in front of her stepmother’s room, no quite daring to knock. The dinner had been spent in complete silence, and if the young maid usually wasn’t bothered the slightest by the lack of human interactions, this time it had been positively unnerving. She had forced herself not to catch too much worried glances at Lady Tremaine, afraid she would snap. Hopefully, no one had noticed Cinderella’s odd behaviour, and for once, she was glad no one paid her any attention.

What was waiting for her behind the massive door, she didn’t know. The girl was always a bit nervous, truth to be told, at the prospect of entering her stepmother’s quarters. But this was different. She hadn’t been brought here as one or her numerous chores, or at least, it hadn’t been explicit. She couldn’t really said she had been invited — the idea seemed utterly ridiculous anyway — but not really summoned either. She had been dragged away from her rightful place by the hand that had originally put her there, and it felt _wrong._ She was but a maid, after all.

She knocked three times, her stomach twitching a bit more each time her small hand tapped on the door.

“Come in.”

Cinderella obliged, slowly closing the door behind her. Her stepmother was seated by her vanity, her hands folded on her lap. She gauged the trembling girl for a brief instant, and beckoned her to approach with an annoyed tilt of head.

“I still find it quite baffling,” she began, a light smirk on her lips. “A _maid_ interested in poetry,” she added, just in case her stepdaughter hadn’t the brain to grasp the ridicule of the situation as well.

Cinderella said nothing, swallowing a pride long gone and words she would never dare to throw back at lady Tremaine.

“But you are your father’s daughter after all,” she carried on, her eyes lost on the girl’s blushing face, “I suppose I ought to have foreseen some… surprises.”

There was a moment of silence when neither of them spoke, Cinderella too nervous to utter more than a squeak, and Lady Tremaine obviously still pondering if she wasn’t being too kind to the girl. Surely, even to _her_ it must have appeared as out of character, thought Cinderella.

“Pleasant surprises, actually.” And to that the averting blue eyes lifted on the matriarch, a humble disbelief in them. “I don’t see a reason why you shouldn’t be at least a _bit_ educated,” she said, her bony fingers grazing the cover of the book on the vanity. “I’m not one to refuse knowledge.”

Well implied she could refuse anything that took her fancy. Cinderella watched, still not believing the scene unravelling before her eyes, her stepmother rising up. How small she felt before that woman! It wasn’t just that the matriarch easily towered above her; those stern green eyes always managed to keep her in place, a simple flutter of lashes enough to have her on her knees before Lady Tremaine. 

“Here,” the low voice continued, startling the girl out of her reverie. “I daresay you’ll find this interesting,” she susurrated, handing her the book. “Now off you go, young lady.”

Cinderella didn’t need to be asked twice, her trembling legs hurrying her away. Only when secured between the strong walls of her room, she dared to open the prized object. _The touch_. She read it, stopping at one point, guilt colouring her cheeks. Her wide opened eyes devouring the words with a growing appetite new to her, she settled on the last quatrain, panting as if she had ran from the devil himself. _You’re shaking like you’ve seen the devil… but maybe you have?_ Lady Tremaine’s words came back to her mind out of nowhere, repeating themselves over and over until it made her head spin. Soon, the both peremptory and soothing voice of her stepmother was whispering the shameful verses like a curse to her ears: 

_I follow slowly the graceful contours of your hips,_

_The curves of your shoulders, your neck, your unappeased breasts._

_In your white voluptuousness my desire rests,_

_Swooning, refusing itself the kisses of your lips._

Cinderella closed the book and hid under her covers, quickly extinguishing her candle. She prayed The Lord a dozen times to forgive her, to _protect_ her from a temptation she pleaded guilty to have succumbed to already, for those words breathed by her stepmother was all she could think of as she fell asleep, her sin still burning on her skin.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Cinderella repressed a yawn. To say she hadn’t slept much that night was the understatement of the year; if her blue eyes were heavy with dark rings under them, it was the guilt that clouded them which came as the most striking feature. How many times had she heard those words, those shameful words, swirl in her dreams that night? How many times had she whimpered, both of distress and pleasure, eventually waking up drenched in sweat? Were they dreams or nightmares, she wondered as she was walking the long corridors, forcing her legs to march like good little soldiers and not the tired limbs they were.

Some malevolent spirit must have had taken great joy in toying with her mind that night, and the worst part was that she couldn’t in all honesty pretend she had _really_ wanted to chase it away. Or maybe just a bit, as she knew a restless night wouldn’t do well with her chores. 

She inhaled deeply, smoothing her apron as if it could arrange her pitiful appearance, before knocking at her stepmother’s door.

Lady Tremaine was already awakened, albeit not out of bed yet; Lucifer was on her lap, purring happily in response to his morning caresses. The view startled the girl who stopped dead on her tracks, dread washing upon her as she was already stammering an apology. Punctuality was a quality she knew to be praised and expected by the older woman, and arriving late to wake her up would certainly result in more than just pursed lips, Cinderella thought. Her stepmother merely titled her head on the side, however, a light smirk on the lips. 

“Quite the gaunt expression you wear, child,” she said, hushing the cat away.

Cinderella’s breath caught in her throat: hearing Lady Tremaine’s gentle voice, a hint of amusement hidden in her words, instead of the harsh reprimand she expected, almost undid her. She swallowed her embarrassment in hopes of regaining some countenance.

“I–” She looked at the matriarch who had now an eyebrow raised, patiently waiting for her to gather the wits she so terribly lacked this morning. “Please pardon me, stepmother,” she whispered, her eyes falling on her shoes. “I must have overslept, I–” She sighed, forcing her voice to calm down. “I’ll go prepare your breakfast right away.”

“Oh, but you did not oversleep.” Lady Tremaine’s voice efficiently dragged her back in the room. All of the sudden, the woman was back to her cold and haughty self, and Cinderella wondered if she hadn’t just imagined all that warmth she’d thought she heard only a second ago. “It has yet to be a _servant’s_ privilege to wake up with the sun, although it is some task that shouldn’t be trusted too often into noble hands,” she said, her eyes gleaming with a vicious satisfaction. “Approach.” Cinderella did. “Well, well, did you sleep at all last night young lady, I wonder?” Her green eyes felt like a burn; the young girl could feel them roaming over her, scrutinising every detail of her appearance expertly. She felt like a witch burned at a stake for heresy, the flames licking her sinful flesh under the greedy eyes of a pious crowd.

Obedient as always, Cinderella stayed put as she had learned to after all those years, when she heard the familiar creak of the bed, as her stepmother rose. She kept her hands from trembling, folding them in a painful twist, her head slightly bowed. A strand of hair had come loose from her modest bun, tingling her cheek. She closed her eyes, bracing herself for a slap that never came.

Instead, she felt Lady Tremaine circling her, and for a second, Cinderella thought she would simply left her here, not even worthy of a reprimand anymore. But the imposing figure of her stepmother stopped right behind her, and Cinderella wondered is she had just forgotten how to breathe when she felt the hushed words grazing her neck. 

“A view for sore eyes, really.”

She wasn’t sure if her stepmother was actually kidding or not, and if that half repressed chuckle was not a simple figment of her imagination. Cinderella only knew she had indeed forgotten how to breathe when she felt a hand, a smooth and gracious hand, creeping like a snake up her cheek to replace the strand of hair behind her ear. The motion certainly didn’t last more than three seconds, but those three seconds had a strange taste of eternity and pure bliss to the young girl. Unable to explain why and too disconcerted by her body’s reaction betraying her in this way to possibly reason about it, she found herself to hope it would _really_ had had this taste of timelessness.

“Pleasant dreams hard to leave, or nightmares still chasing you in the morning, tell me?”

Cinderella drew a shallow breath, unable to restrain the shiver that had her trembling like a leaf. Lady Tremaine’s hand had found refuge on her shoulder, her warm palm able to melt her skin hidden under her handmaiden’s clothes; a hand that, albeit steady and unmoving, cold in the gesture one could have say, was like a caress, unable to escape and keeping her to her place.

“Ah, but I doubt nightmares would light your cheeks with such a blush now, would they?”

The whispered words laced Cinderella’s neck like a rope would a man to be hanged, asphyxiating her. A shiver ran along her spine and it was so strong she was pretty sure Tremaine felt it too, as her hand shifted slightly; Cinderella couldn’t tell if it was a comforting gesture or a silent order to stay put. Not able to move anyway, her legs turned into jelly by Tremaine’s sole presence, the maid bowed her head slightly, blushing even more with this silent confession of hers.

Oh, pleasant dreams yes, but dreams she shouldn't – _couldn’t_ – indulge in. That poetry her stepmother had so generously lent her had been plaguing her mind with vivid images burning her skin with embarrassment from the moment she had read the first verse. Of course, she hadn’t read the entire book last night although she had been tempted to, the reparative sleep she was seeking originally so cruelly eluding her. Instead, she had stuck with _The touch_ , her dilating pupils mesmerised by the words before her whilst she held her trembling fingers on the pages, afraid she might give in the lascivious incantations of the poem.

As a little girl, her father had often read her stories about terrifying sorceresses, able to bend one’s spirit with a flick of finger, and create any emotion with some precise concoctions boiling in their cauldrons. Of course, Cinderella knew those were only tales to tell children, but it had her wonder if there wasn’t some sort of hidden magic in between those rhymes, for she felt spellbound to that book.

She was brought out of her reverie by the feel of the hand leaving her shoulder, albeit not without lingering a bit. Tremaine’s voice, however, was a relentless touch, a heavy presence not ready to let her be.

“Go and prepare breakfast,” Tremaine said, Cinderella missing the smile playing on her lips. “I believe I kept you for myself long enough for even Anastasia and Drizella to deign awaken.”

Cinderella found that her stepmother was right, as usual; her two stepsisters weren’t even in their room when she reached it. Hurrying down the dining room, the maid found them seated and chatting pleasantly, waiting to be served. A surrealist picture to Cinderella’s eyes, as she would have expected to find a mess upon her arrival, the two other girls revelling in lengthening her chores’ list.

“Cinderella,” Anastasia apostrophized her, doing her best to mimic her mother’s cold and poised attitude. “Not quite the early bird this morning? Hurry up, we’re _famished._ ”

Well, I’m not the only one to have done some reading it’d seem, the servant thought with a repressed smile.

“I’m sorry,” she offered, already going for the kitchen to quickly fix some suitable breakfast. “I was with you mother… I was chatting with your mother,” she stammered, not really knowing _how_ to describe the situation. “I lost track of the time. Breakfast will be here right away.” 

“You… _chatted_ with mother?” Drizella echoed, as if the concept wasn’t only preposterous, but scandalous as well.

To be honest, Cinderella would have agreed on both.

Before she could even think of what to say to ease her stepsister’s growing ire, or for the later to continue her venomous tirade, the cold voice of Lady Tremaine lashed through the air like a whip.

“The girl can speak, Drizella,” she said tartly, slowly moving towards the table. “I fail to see how the fact we chatted is so complex for you to comprehend.”

Cinderella looked at her stepmother in disbelief, as she was never one to reprimand her daughters so openly; but the woman’s icy expression remained fixed on a petrified Drizella. The maid didn’t hear if they discussed the matter any further, as she made the most of the heavy silence and took her leave to the kitchens, whispering in passing that the breakfast would be ready in a minute.

When she came back with a tray of tea, bread, fruits and different sort of jams, she found the three women still bathed in a silence thick as a fog. Anastasia and Drizella were looking at their mother with a mixture of fear and hurt, whilst lady Tremaine’s angry glare could have melted the vase she was staring at. Cinderella had a moment of hesitation seeing this. Her blue eyes went from her stepsister to her stepmother, then to the vase. She felt her mouth go dry as she realised she had forgotten to change its flowers, and that the roses it contained had already started to wither.

“Oh god.” 

She couldn’t refrain the anguished whisper that passed her lips, which succeeded in drawing three pairs of eyes upon her. Her two stepsisters seemed maliciously thankful that Cinderella had now their mother’s full attention for the better and especially for the worst, as it gave them room to be forgotten and breathe. And indeed were the piercing green eyes upon her! Cinderella looked back at lady Tremaine, equally terrified than the matriarch seemed annoyed, her trembling lips moving incoherently, desperate to form any word that would please the woman. 

“Well,” lady Tremaine said sharply, squinting ominously. “What is it, child? Cat’s got your tongue, now, has it?”

Cinderella didn’t know whether her stepmother’s sarcasm was the reason she felt her throat constrict painfully, or if it was the fact she seemed to discard like a vulgar duster their conversation that although rum, she had for her part found quite pleasant.

Not trusting herself to apologise without choking on tears she knew she had no valid reason to shed, she merely nodded – to what? She didn’t even know anymore, – and went to pick up the scandalous vase to replace its flowers.

“Don’t.”

Cinderella stopped, the faintest word of lady Tremaine so strong to her obedient ears.

“You’ll arrange this when we’ll be finished with breakfast,” the matriarch added with a surprisingly calm voice, like the first rays of sun after thundering black clouds. From the look of her two stepsisters, Cinderella could only guess they had trouble making out what their mother was telling her. Lady Tremaine looked at her with softer eyes, albeit far from kind. “You’ve had a rather turbulent night, have you not?” she said, her low whisper stretching in a smirk upon her face. “I shall let this slip go,” she explained, her poised attitude giving her the air of a king who had just graced a felon. “For this time.”

Cinderella found nothing to answer, her mind transformed in a virgin caveat when lady Tremaine’s sultry erased all the reason she’d have sworn to possess only a minute ago. Hopefully, her stepsisters quickly delivered her from her embarrassment, already whining for more orange juice.

The rest of the morning had hopefully been uneventful for Cinderella. She had been granted some unexpected peace as he two stepsisters were leaving for the day for the town, having an appointment with the tailor for new gowns. Normally, lady Tremaine would have accompanied them; she had always like to have her clothes custom-made and she had a rather good eye for selecting colours, materials and a design that fitted her the best. Cinderella had often wished she would once be allowed to go as well, but she was forced to admit she wouldn’t have the faintest idea of what to choose and that the result would probably be boring anyway. Still, seeing her two stepsisters leaving, carried by the distant noise of the horses’ hooves against the hard path in front of the domain, she couldn’t help but daydream about having a well designed dress. Even better, a dress that her stepmother would have chosen with her expert eye.

Making the best of the nice weather, she had set for dusting the numerous carpets of the house outside. It wasn’t an easy task, as most of them were large oriental rugs and were heavy enough for even her strong arms to shake under the weight. Some were smaller and thus easier to transport, but for the larger ones she had to make several breaks along the way, already feeling beads of sweat running along her back. Once outside, she rolled up her sleeves and set the carpets on a strong rope between two oaks. She looked at her rudimentary set up with a satisfier smile, and took her time really admiring the details of the oriental rugs. Her favourite was the large blue one, whose home was the room of her stepmother. It was thick but still soft to the touch. Woven with several shades of dark blue, ochre and cream, it depicted scenes of a world she could only dream of. She had learnt those strange animals vaguely looking like horses were camels, and that they were used as means of transportation _there_ , as the water was scare and the heat deadly, in the desert. The people, too, were different. Draped in blue from head to toes, in a manner that reminded her of the Romans’ togas.  She smiled fondly at this, wondering if lady Tremaine had ever travelled that far, seeing the infinite knowledge she possessed on foreign cultures.

Cinderella pushed the thought aside and took some old racket of braided osier that had formerly belonged to Drizella, who had broken it after loosing a game, and started beating the dust out of the carpets. She continued for what seemed like hours under a blazing sun. Her hair, escaping from a loosen bun, was clamping for her forehead, and she had to unfasten her smothering collar a bit, feeling like the heat would get the better of her at this rate. This let a well appreciated breeze caress her neck where she had unfasten three buttons, and she closed her eyes in satisfaction, thanking a nameless God for those small pleasures.

On the second floor of the house stood lady Tremaine, peering at the scene from behind the large windows and marvelling at how blissfully unaware of her surroundings the girl could be. Looking stern as usual, she had her arms folded on her chest, her long fingers drumming silently on her sleeve. She couldn’t help but snort at the sight of those clouds of dust engulfing Cinderella. It didn’t stop the maid, though, as she retaliated with heavy blows, determined to clean those rugs as if her life was at stake. In spite of herself, lady Tremaine was somewhat impressed by this; from time to time, if her schedule allowed it, her stepdaughter would take on additional chores that were not asked of her, simply because she felt like doing so, and lady Tremaine was forced to admit that she appreciated it, when the girl took matter in hand. Of course, she would never tell her; she was but a servant, after all. This daily routine was expected of her.

Lady Tremaine took a sharper breath as she watched the clumsy hands unbuttoned the back of the collar. From where she stood, she could only guess the now uncovered neck to glister with sweat. Her piercing eyes followed the same rustic hand put a rebellious strand of hair behind an ear. Cinderella’s hands were not as ladylike as hers; years of work had rendered those palms harder and a bit wider, some fingers still wearing the souvenirs of days when the maid had burned herself on the stove or cut herself whilst preparing dinner. She had the hands of any yokel one could find in the next village, the crude hands of a peasant.

Clearing her throat, the matriarch smoothened an unexciting crease on her dress and left without another look at the young girl.

Cinderella didn’t catch a glimpse of her stepmother before noon, when she arrived to be served lunch. It felt oddly intimate, staying in the same room than lady Tremaine and watching her eating quietly and asking every now and then about the chores of the day or even complimenting the food. With Anastasia and Drizella, the meals were always a bit tenser, and although _this_ was not exactly the most relaxing situation for Cinderella, it was a different kind of tension entirely that transpired the scene.

But soon enough, lady Tremaine had said she was going for a walk in the large gardens of the propriety, near the forest, and had left without any additional word.

And just like that, Cinderella was alone again in a house already too big for the four of them. 

She finished to dust the rugs during the early afternoon, silently praying for some light clouds to hide her from the sun. Putting all those carpets back were they belonged prove to be even more tedious than removing them. Once in her stepmother’s room, trying to remember the exact position of the large oriental rug, she took the opportunity to clean the room from top to bottom. Not that it really needed it, of course, but she thought that maybe a little extra would please lady Tremaine. And if she were to be honest with herself, the idea to linger a bit in this sacred room, without anybody to question it was too enticing to be refused. Even when she wasn't in it, the room just carried lady Tremaine’s presence with a disarming strength. It was imposing, the high ceiling towering high above any visitor, just as the matriarch. And _her_ perfume! The perfume Cinderella could have recognized anywhere, albeit without knowing exactly of what the sweet fragrance was made, was everywhere, like both an invitation and a warning.

After having cleaned her stepsisters’ room as well, taking care of making room in their closet for their latest acquisitions, she let her legs carry her along the large windows that gave sight to the patio and most of the large fields that came with the house. She could see the frame of lady Tremaine, so small with the distance she could have held in her hand. Cinderella smiled at the thought, and went down to the kitchen. 

When lady Tremaine finally arrived, she was greeted with a comfortable chair on the patio under the shadows of the large willow tree, and a glass of fresh punch. Cinderella had also fetched a small towel and a basin of cold water for the older woman to freshen up.

Lady Tremaine sat wordlessly and accepted the cold punch, her long fingers gliding smoothly on the condensation covering the glass. She paid no attention to the entranced blue eyes following the motion with reverence, keen not to miss a single thing. Eventually, the glass left her lips, and Cinderella found herself prisoner of lady Tremaine’s strong gaze.

“It is good,” she simply said. “What is it?”

“Raspberry and basil, with a dash of lime.”

Her stepmother arched an eyebrow in surprise, but took another sip.

“An odd combination,” she commented. "But it’s very refreshing," she added, like an after-thought.

Cinderella hesitated, not desirous to disturb the woman who was closing her eyes in both contentment and fatigue. The heat wave was indeed strong. 

“I brought a basin of water and a towel,” she whispered shyly, so low lady Tremaine almost didn’t catch it. Cinderella bit her lower lip as her eyes met her stepmother’s inquiring ones. “You know, if you want to freshen up a bit. It’s… It’s rather hot.”

“No, I’m fine. It’s more my feet that suffered from the walk,” she made an annoyed gesture with her hand.

“Then-” The maid wasn’t exactly sure of what was expected of her and if her stepmother would even _consider_ what she was about to ask, but… “-would you like me to massage your feet?” She didn’t know if the gaze she got in response was an angry one or just plain surprised, but she carried on, feigning a boldness she didn’t feel. “I could wash them with the fresh water,” she explained, designing the porcelain basin, “and massage them to ease their fatigue.” She swallowed with difficulty, realising too well how she had spoken her words with an inhuman rapidity. “If… If you want me to, that is.”

Lady Tremaine tilted her head to the side, her eyes never leaving the sheepish frame of Cinderella. After an excruciating long silence that had the maid squirming nervously on her spot, she gave the faintest node and extended one leg nonchalantly, watching with a sick smile the girl scrambling at her feet.

“Uh…”

Cinderella was on her knees in front of lady Tremaine’s surprisingly toned leg, and suddenly there wasn’t enough oxygen to fill her lungs. Her stepmother’s dress was of a fashion that concealed her modesty, always; and so, the sudden revelation of an always hidden ankle and a bit of calf, bore some scandalous allure that coloured Cinderella’s cheeks like a harsh slap would, especially when realized she’d have to free those feet of their stockings.

“Those are but knee-length socks,” lady Tremaine whispered in her low, amused voice. “I’m sure your deft hands will manage, won’t they?” She added with a dark chuckle.

Not trusting her mouth to let out more than a squeak, Cinderella said nothing and drew her shaky hands nearer from the presented calf. She could feel her face reddening more and more by the second and honestly thought she would faint when her inept fingers touched the soft material. She inwardly cringed at her gaucherie, when her clammy hands fumbled with the silk. She bent her head even lower, keen to hide her beet-red face from her stepmother.

“You’ve unbuttoned your collar.” 

This was but a simple observation, the usual reprimand lacking in lady Tremaine’s voice, but it had the effect of a cold shower on the young girl. Her eyes widening in fear and her lips already stuttering a plea, she reached to the offensive collar with one hand and tried to fasten it up.

“Ah, leave it,” the matriarch said, with a wave of the hand. “You’re _radiating_ heat; a bit of fresh air won’t hurt you.”

Cinderella obeyed quietly. She could sense her every actions being watched carefully, but made a point to focus on the feet she had now bare before her. She hemmed the edge of the dress, so that it would not soak into the water, and gently guided the feet in the basin. She was grateful for the cold against her sweaty hands as well, feeling that if her hands were steadier, hopefully her cheeks would become less flustered as well and that she would regain a semblance of composure.

It was easy to let her mind wander whilst her hands were massaging lady Tremaine’s feet almost automatically under the cold water. The scene reminded her of Eurycleia washing Odysseus’ feet, and she smiled lightly at the pictures it drew in her head. They stayed silent for a long time, the only noises being swash of the water and the chirping of the birds nested in the protective willow tree next to them. 

“Aren’t you tired?” Cinderella rose her head slightly, her eyebrows lifted in question. “Your hands must be near cramping now,” lady Tremaine clarified.

It was true that her motions had grown a bit less intricate with the time passing. She bit her lips in reprimand, forcing herself to concentrate on her task.

“I can continue if you want me to,” she murmured, not daring to meet her stepmother’s eyes she could only imagine ice cold.

Like a pagan reciting forbidden prayers, she felt her heart in a flutter when the hand of her goddess softly took her by the chin, forcing her eyes to meet what she could only describe as divine.

Lady Tremaine had the ghost of a smile on the lips, and her eyes were looking at her with a fondness Cinderella found overwhelming.

“This is not quite what I asked,” she breathed, her gentle reprimand cradling Cinderella’s face as tenderly as her hand. Her eyes seemed to shine with amusement for a brief instant and, slowly licking her thumb with her tongue in a move that painfully reminded the girl of the poems she had read, she placed it on the cheek of Cinderella, rubbing a bit, and efficiently removing a stain of dust left by the chores of the day. “There you go, young lady. I think I’ve kept you for myself long enough.”

Cinderella took it as her cue to leave and nodded, unable to articulate a single word, nor a coherent thought, for that matter. Once inside, shielded from lady Tremaine’s invasive presence, she leant against a pillar of marble, relishing the feeling of the chill stone against her back. She brushed her cheek with a tentative hand where her stepmother had rubbed the stain out; she could still feel the skin burning with both embarrassment and something else she couldn’t quite identify. 

Or maybe she could, just to well.


	3. Chapter 3

She was lying in her bed, the exhaustion smothering her and yet leaving unable to find the dreamless sleep she so desperately sought. Cinderella sighed heavily, absentmindedly tracing patterns with a hand on her stomach. On the celling, she could see the shadows of the trees that reached past her window, casted by the moonlight. Stretching lasciviously on the walls, they reminded her of one of those ballets her father had taken her to, when she was a child. The spectacles were always very strict in a sense; everything was set up, which seemed a bit contradictory with a dance, and yet, even in those restrains, the dancers always appeared… Ah! She couldn’t quite find the word. Maybe there wasn’t even one? But they expressed something that would make her skin tingle, as surely as her own hand circling her navel did. She closed her eyes, sighing again; those shadows were a distraction she could ill afford if she wanted to find sleep, eventually.

Her sheets felt incredibly heavy on her, pressing on her legs in a way that had her stuck against the mattress. They were clinging against her skin as surely as her nightgown, the light tissue damp with the sweat she could feel dripping between her breasts. She moved her hand between them, her fingers brushing the stickiness off her. The simple, innocent gesture opened a tap in her mind, and at once she was assaulted by pictures —vague impressions, really— coming right from that cursed poetry book. A book she guiltily treasured and kept on her nightstand. Those words had poisoned her brain with seductive figures, always caressing the edge of her consciousness but not quite touching, and there was nothing she could do to prevent it. More often than not, her closed eyelids would be the stage of tantalising dreams, from which she’d woke up either completely drenched, or just flustered, not quite managing what had put her in such a state. 

Those figures dancing in her mind eluded her. They were half-hidden behind a veil she didn’t dare to approach, let alone pull. She would discern forms, curves, coming into focus before disappearing again, but nothing to let her know who was behind that veil. She would observe them undulating, maybe take a tentative step towards them but at the same time rooted to the spot by her very own desires.

She moved her hand slightly and the veil quivered, as if moved by a soft breeze. The shadowy figure behind the veil turned ever so slightly, daring her to go further, to press against that translucent barrier and rip it up. Cinderella hesitated, closing her eyes more tightly, the effort drawing little creases on her forehead. Do it, said the voice in her head. It wasn’t hers, though she knew it. She knew that voice but couldn’t quite place it on a face, her dream-like state distorting everything around her. Touch, the voice intimated, the command irrevocable. A silent plea crossed Cinderella’s lips at the same time as a barely repressed moan. She threw her head back against her pillow, her mouth slightly opened, her lips trembling. She could feel the blood colouring her cheeks and ears with shame. In a half moment of lucidity, she almost found the willpower to throw away the sheets that were suffocating her in their embrace. 

The noise she heard in the corridor not so far from her room had the effect of a cold shower, and as suddenly as it had come, the warmth she had felt inside disappeared. It was as if that pulsing desire had been drained from her mind, leaving her empty; numb, almost. She jerked her hand aside like it had just been burnt, and kept still in her bed. A feeling of both guilt and disgust washed upon her and she choked on a sob, all too aware of what she had just done. She knew she would never be able to fall asleep now, and decided to sneak to the kitchens to first take a glass of cold water —this would hopefully put some sense back into her head and chase away those lewd thoughts out of her mind— and then, maybe a hot cup of milk. This always made her sleepy.

She pushed her sheets aside and left her bed. The floor was cold against her naked feet. And with her nightgown still clinging to her skin, she was starting to shiver. Ah, well. This was a punishment well deserved, she thought.

She walked towards the corridor, her arms held protectively across her stomach in a vain attempt to chase the cold away from her skin. She supposed she could have taken a dressing gown with her; parading in the house at such a tardive hour, in nothing but a nightgown felt beyond daring, it was incroyablement risqué. And if she was entirely honest with herself, she liked the small guilty knots forming inside her as she reflected on her boldness. Anyway, the kitchens weren’t that far, and she doubted she’d run into anything else than dancing shadows at this time of the night. Even that cursed cat of Lucifer wouldn’t be wandering out of his mistress’ bed, for which she was eternally thankful.

Of course the kitchens were empty. Some reddish ember still coloured the hearth, filling the room with an agreable warmth. Cinderella took the poker and wriggled the firebrand to revive them, and poured some milk in saucepan she put to heat up. The white liquid rapidly started to boil, and she removed it just in time from the fire. She then transferred it in one of the larger cups they had —not the fine china with the edges dipped in gold— quickly cleaned the saucepan and, with some water, extinguished the fire, but not entirely. The heath was large enough that they could leave a fire running without risking a blaze.

Her mug in hand, she headed back for her room, wincing as the cold outside the kitchens engulfed her once more. The prospect of sipping on her milk, comfortably hidden under her sheets, brought a lazy smile on her lips. Her mind was soon enough clouded by tired thoughts, and her legs were walking of their own accord, so well that when she saw a silhouette, not five meters away from her, she could not retain the frightened yelp that rose from her throat. The alarmed cry came with a jerk of her hand, the protective gesture too fast to be stopped, and she spilled some milk over her. And on the oriental rug, she thought with a rising panic, quickly taking a step to hide the stain; she’d take care of this tomorrow morning, as soon as the breakfast was over. She must.

Her eyes went to the silhouette again, and Cinderella felt her blood leaving her. Transformed in a pillar of salt, she could only open her mouth in a silent ‘o’ of surprise, unable to tear her gaze off…

Lady Tremaine.

Tall, imperious and clad in shadows, she was the perfect image of a vengeful goddess, claiming the large corridor —yet rendered somewhat skimpy by her sole presence— with a silent order. Cinderella felt her knees ready to betray her, and she foolishly wondered just how much more it would take for her to bow to the woman, and kiss her feet with pagan prayers on her lips.

“Well, that’s certainly flattering,” Lady Tremaine said low, breathing sharply from her noise. If Cinderella had failed to catch the annoyance in her words, she would certainly feel it radiate from the matriarch.

“I… I’m sorry, I simply wasn’t expecting–”

“What? To be found the hand in the bag?” Lady Tremaine was looking at her, Cinderella knew it, and she felt her mouth go dry. “What on earth are you doing up at this late an hour?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” she said lamely. She could hear a sharp intake of breath; clearly, it needed more explaining. “So I went to the kitchens to make a cup of hot milk,” she added, raising her hand slightly, forgetting that from the distance, her stepmother probably couldn’t see the gesture anyway.

But it didn't matter, because lady Tremaine was already walking towards her, her haughty steps muffled by the carpet. For a second, Cinderella contemplated fleeing, but facing doom at the hand of that woman seemed the most sensible choice.

“Hot milk,” she repeated slowly, detaching the words with a cold precision. Somehow she managed to make it sound like an insult.

“Well, yes.”

What was her stepmother expecting from her? It wasn’t forbidden — yet — to wander outside her room in the middle of the night, after all. And besides, it wasn’t as if she had left; she had just gone to the kitchen, it was–

Cinderella stopped breathing when lady Tremaine reached her and stopped just where the moonlight pierced through the windows. Her face was half lit, half in shadows, and her eyes widened briefly with surprise, which was quickly replaced by a certain smugness. Cinderella followed the gaze, only to see it was taking in on her get-up, and stopping on the spilled milk that darkened the tissue, just below her breasts. Her cheeks blushing with shame, she lowered her head slightly, the embarrassment to heavy to hold.  
“How deliciously clumsy you can be,” lady Tremaine said, a strange affection in the voice.

A repressed chuckle, perhaps, but Cinderella never knew because her mind stopped functioning after that. Lady Tremaine took one step closer, and she was close, impossibly close, and that alone would have been enough to deprive the girl of the little sanity she had left, but then lady Tremaine extended a hand, and–

“It’s almost a wonder,” she breathed, her long fingers touching the spot of the nightgown the milk had tainted.

It took Cinderella all her willpower to not simply drop her cup, right there on the carpet. It was but a light touch, something fleeting and imperceptible — maybe she was imagining altogether or vividly hallucinating, it was entire possible. But the wet material then clung to her skin, as if recoiling, and just to know that it was the sole obstacle sheltering her from the touch of her stepmother was smothering. 

She let out a shuddering breath she didn’t know she had been holding when the hand moved higher and grazed her neck, before cupping her cheek. Reflexively, Cinderella looked up and was immediately held captive by her stepmother’s piercing eyes. They were gleaming with something she didn’t quite know how to describe, but that felt insistent, demanding.

Something in Cinderella’s expression must have given her away, because it earned her a low chuckle that sent shivers down her spine.

“Should I take you back to your chambers,” lady Tremaine began in a whisper, yet the words thundering in Cinderella’s ears, “and put you to bed?”

“I, ah, I don’t think that will be necessary,” she managed to stutter in response. “I don’t wish to… impose.”

The stern gaze she was returned with told Cinderella that she had in fact no choice but to accept. Of course.

And so she let herself be returned to her chambers like a lost lamb to the sheepfold. She still had her mug in her hands, and it suddenly felt heavy, preposterous even. What had she been thinking? What was she thinking? In the oppressive quietness surrounding them both, berating herself was oddly refreshing; it filled the space, and for a moment, she could almost have forgotten just who was walking besides her.

Almost. Lady Tremaine was no easy to forget; God knows she had tried to.

“What kept you up so late?” She asked all of the sudden, more with reproach than concern.

“Dreams,” Cinderella answers, somewhat meekly.

It was a version of a truth she could never confess, to anyone. Distort it even further than it was already twisted was something she could indulge in, she thought. It had gone too far already, in territories too dangerous and frightening for her to come back. She realised it with a strange clarity that made her head spin. If she had braved common sense and morality, she deserved to rot in those wastelands stretching before her. She would remain there, huddled up like a chick fallen from its nest and left by its mother to feed the first predator to come by.

“My, we seem to have a lot of those lately, don’t we?” Lady Tremaine was smirking and Cinderella could hear it in her voice, her inflexions. There was a brief pause, and she was about to apologize, to explain just how sorry and mortified she was, when her stepmother continued: “Sleep has been eluding me as well.”

“Ah?” she said, inwardly cringing at her gaucherie.

“Yes,” lady Tremaine snapped in annoyance, as if trying to make her understand some basic concept Cinderella was just too stupid to grasp.

Cinderella felt like she was missing something. It was there, just there, hidden in the bramble around her, but she didn’t quite dare to extend her hand to take it, afraid of the thorns that would get stuck in her palms. Leaving or staying in this place, she thought, blood would be spilled. It would run along her forearm like a braided river, take everything in its course, and pool in her hands. It would be like the rubies oriental princesses wore in their hair, or it would be rust, and flake off. It would tingle, and prick, and itch; and she would scratch at her skin with her dirty fingernails, but the stain would remain.

She could drown in the deepest ocean, sleep in the coldest waters, the stain would remain.

They were at the door of her chamber, and Cinderella breathed thanks — a plea, perhaps, she wasn’t quite sure.

“You should know by now that it is no habit of mine, to bother doing things that don’t please me.”

She was already leaving, but Cinderella’s soft whisper held her in place.

“Why couldn’t you sleep?”

There was a sense of fear and wonder to the question; an apprehensive excitement, knots forming inside her and leaving her breathless.

And languidly, as if waking up from a nap under the afternoon’s sun and not quite awake yet, lady Tremaine turned around. She stared at Cinderella and seemed to see something new; something new she had sought for a long time, and that made her eyes gleam with the satisfaction of finally finding it. She let the moment pass, stretch lazily between them and carry her whisper with it.

“You’re not only one who dreams, Cinderella.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... Terribly late, terribly short, and terribly hard to write.

**Author's Note:**

> For those of you who'd like to read the entire poem mentioned, it is from Renée Vivien.


End file.
